


Hair

by Rianne



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Hair-pulling, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 15:39:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2586824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rianne/pseuds/Rianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras gets a lot of haircuts. Grantaire finds out why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hair

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [ this headcanon](http://prouvaireiant.tumblr.com/post/70210773626/enjolras-getting-haircuts-way-more-often-than-he)!
> 
> Honestly, this is just random, tooth-rotting fluff. I wrote it really fast so please let me know if you find any errors.

Enjolras stumbles into the Les Amis meeting five minutes late with his fingers freezing and snow melting in his freshly-cut hair. The day is not going quite as planned. Combeferre pauses midway through the email he’s reading out, and everyone looks up at Enjolras.

“Finally here?” Courfeyrac smirks. Enjolras rolls his eyes at him. He hasn’t been late or missed a meeting in months, possibly years.

“I’m sorry I’m late, everyone,” he says, shaking his head to get rid of the snow as he shrugs out of his coat.

“It wasn’t the same without you, chief,” Grantaire calls from the back corner, where he’s slumped in a chair.

Enjolras doesn’t think that comment deserves a response, so he just sits down next to Combeferre, who’s saved him a seat, and gestures for him to proceed. Combeferre continues reading the email, which is a response from the mayor’s office to a permit request for a protest. Enjolras has already read it, so he gets a minute to catch his breath.

He had an exam this morning, and then he’d struggled to finish an essay on time. After that he’d had to do shopping, and then there had been his hairdresser’s appointment. He’d been looking forward to that more than he could say. He gets his hair cut far more often than strictly necessary, mostly because it’s the only socially acceptable way he could think of to get someone to touch his hair.

Even though many of his friends are extremely tactile, nobody ever dares to even point a finger at his hair. Courfeyrac routinely ruffles the hair of Joly, Combeferre, Eponine, and even Grantaire, but he never so much as looks at Enjolras’ curls. The same goes for Grantaire, who would probably ruffle his hair during arguments in his more patronising moments, if it weren’t for the fact that there is an unspoken rule to Not Touch Enjolras’ Hair.

He knows he has a reputation for vanity, given the care he put into his dress and, yes, also into his hair. He doesn’t blame them, really. Besides, he knows that if he asked for affection, he would absolutely receive it. But it’s impossible to bring the issue up, no matter how hard he tries. It’s just too awkward. The mere thought of asking someone to _touch his hair_ makes him blush. So instead, he keeps his mouth shut and his hair short, because hairdressers don’t ask questions. They just touch your hair.

So he’d gone to the hairdresser that afternoon, but they’d been running late on appointments before his, and in the end his turn had come half an hour later than planned. That meant he was in a rush to get to the meeting, and he hadn’t been able to properly enjoy  getting his hair cut. Now he’s frustrated and annoyed, but he still has a meeting to lead.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre says next to him, and Enjolras takes a deep breath and looks around the group. _Compartmentalise_ , he reminds himself, and pushes the frustration aside to focus on more important things.

“Given the email, I’d say there are three issues we need to decide on tonight,” he says.

It isn’t until he’s in bed that night, running his hands through his slightly-shorter-than-this-morning hair, that he remembers how disappointing his hairdresser’s appointment was. He can’t go again for at least two weeks, though. For a start, his hair won’t grow fast enough and he doesn’t want it to be too short. Besides, he would also like to avoid weird looks from the hairdressers.

\--

Unfortunately, he gets swamped in work. There are more exams, then essays, and Les Amis are organising a letter-writing campaign that somehow takes a truly staggering amount of time to orchestrate. On top of that there’s a protest to arrange. It’s difficult enough to find the time to sleep, let alone indulge in his desire to get his hair cut again.

Grantaire drops by on a Thursday in late December to go over some flyer designs. He usually hangs around for a while when he comes over, which Enjolras secretly enjoys much more than he lets on. Occasionally they argue over social justice issues, but other times Grantaire just watches Enjolras work and inserts the occasional snarky remark. Enjolras isn’t sure why he sticks around; it can’t be too interesting because Enjolras tends to focus strongly on his work. Still, he appreciates the company, not least because it’s Grantaire.

He used to think Grantaire was frustrating, but that’s changed over recent months. It’s a development that Enjolras hasn’t really scrutinised very thoroughly yet. He’s not sure he’d like what he’ll find if he examines his feelings too closely.

But now, Grantaire is at his kitchen table spreading out designs. Enjolras hands him a mug of coffee as he leans over his shoulder to look at the sheets.

“This one’s good,” he says, gesturing at one of the designs.

“You would say that. It’s got the most red in it,” Grantaire teases, sipping his coffee.

Enjolras shakes his head. “No, it’s good. This one, too. Which one would you rather have us use?”

“Probably the one with the red,” Grantaire says. “It’s the most eye-catching. Though I might change the title so it looks like it does in this one.” He grabs another flyer.

Enjolras examines it and nods. “Sounds good.”

Grantaire puts the flyers into a stack again and stands up to put them back into his bag. “Your hair’s longer,” he remarks casually.

Enjolras leans back against the kitchen counter. “I need to get it cut,” he says. He doesn’t really mind having longer hair – in fact, it looks pretty good, and he likes that it curls more – but he _wants_ to get it cut. He misses his hairdresser’s appointments. If only he weren’t so busy…

Grantaire put his bag down and sips his coffee again. “Why?” he asks.

Enjolras shrugs, caught off guard by the question. “Just… it’s getting long?” he ventures, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie to hide his unease with the conversation.

“Long looks better,” Grantaire says matter-of-factly. He gestures at the fridge. It has pictures all over it, including some of Enjolras when he was younger and his hair was longer.

Enjolras does his best not to blush at the compliment. It doesn’t mean anything, he reminds himself. Grantaire is just giving his opinion. On Enjolras’ hair.

“Not really,” he mutters.

“It does,” Grantaire insists. “Your hair gets curlier.”

“Fine, it looks better,” Enjolras snaps. “Are we really arguing about my hair?”

“So you agree!” Grantaire sounds gleeful, but then frowns. “Wait, you agree? So why _do_ you get your hair cut all the fucking time?”

Enjolras clenches his hands into fists. He can _feel_ his cheeks heating up. “Nothing, no reason, okay?” he stammers, horrified at his lack of eloquence.

“Oh, Apollo, I’m so not buying that,” Grantaire says, smug. He puts his mug down on the kitchen counter and steps closer to Enjolras. “There’s a great story here, isn’t there? Come on, spill.”

“Why can’t I just get my hair cut?” Enjolras says desperately.

“Oh, I’m not stopping you. I just want to know why.”

Grantaire is so close. Enjolras can’t think. He knows he’s blushing and he must look ridiculous, and he knows he’ll humiliate himself even more if he doesn’t stop this conversation _now_. But something makes him say, breathless, “I just _like_ it, okay? I wouldn’t need to get haircuts _all the fucking time_ if you guys would just stop thinking I’m vain about my hair and will die if anyone touches it and puts a hair out of place!”

He’s breathing fast, horrified at what he just said. “I mean,” he stammers. Grantaire is going to tease him about this _forever_ , he’s never going to live this down, why did it have to be _Grantaire_ of all people…

Grantaire is staring at him, open-mouthed, with wide eyes. After a few seconds of excruciating silence, he snaps his mouth shut. Enjolras braces himself for teasing, but instead, Grantaire’s lips lift in a tiny smile.

“May I?” he asks, gently lifting a hand until it’s hovering just next to Enjolras’ shoulder.

Enjolras’ brain short-circuits. Somewhere, he finds the presence of mind to nod. Grantaire reaches up further, twirling a blonde curl around one finger. Enjolras can just barely feel the pull. He’s not sure he’s breathing. There is a brief moment where it feels like the world is standing still. Then, all of a sudden, Grantaire brings up his other hand and slides them both into Enjolras’ curls.

It’s all Enjolras can do to remain standing. Hairdressers are nothing compared to standing here, in silence, with Grantaire reaching up and curling his fingers into Enjolras’ hair, rubbing across his scalp. Enjolras is glad for the support of the kitchen counter behind him, and he’s absurdly grateful that he manages to keep silent rather than letting out any of the embarrassing noises that are trying to bubble up inside him.

“R,” he breathes, closing his eyes as he bends his head down a little more. In response, Grantaire exerts more pressure with the tips of his fingers. Enjolras’ knees feel like jelly. Somehow he ends up stepping forward, and one of his hands lands on Grantaire’s hip. His eyes fly open in shock and he shifts back again, but Grantaire gently tugs on his hair until Enjolras takes the hint and leans in, placing his hand against Grantaire’s side again.

Eventually Enjolras’s forehead is against Grantaire’s, and Grantaire’s fingers are still sifting through his hair. It feels incomprehensibly good. He’s closed his eyes again at some point, but he opens them to find Grantaire looking at him from just an inch away.

There’s a breathless moment. Grantaire’s hands still, and his eyes flick down to Enjolras’ lips for a split second.

“May I?” Enjolras whispers, afraid that if he speaks any louder, the moment will be gone.

Grantaire nods, and that’s all it takes for Enjolras to slip his arm around Grantaire’s back, pull him closer, and press their lips together. Grantaire gasps and his lips part, and then they’re kissing, kissing as if they’ll never stop. Grantaire’s hands make fists in Enjolras’ hair, and Enjolras reaches up to cup Grantaire’s cheek and tilt his head to find the best angle. Grantaire tastes like coffee, and he’s smiling against Enjolras’ lips. Enjolras pulls away from Grantaire’s lips to kiss the stubble on his jaw. Grantaire, taken by surprise, curls his fingers at the back of Enjolras’ head and _tugs_.

Enjolras’ breath escapes him in a half-strangled groan, and he very nearly ends up slamming his head against the kitchen cupboard behind him.

“Fuck,” Grantaire mumbles, breathless. “This hair thing really does a lot for you, eh?” Embarrassment makes Enjolras look down, but Grantaire dislodges a hand from his hair to cup his face. “Hey. I’m not complaining," he says.

There’s something indescribably tender in his eyes that gives Enjolras courage and makes him say, “In that case, do it again.”

Grantaire does.

Enjolras doesn’t get any more work done that night.  


End file.
